


Don't Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

by CoyoteGhost



Series: Devotion [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadlock Jesse McCree, Gabriel is a good boi, M/M, McReaper, bit of a slow burn, mcreyes - Freeform, so is jesse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-26 05:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15656427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoyoteGhost/pseuds/CoyoteGhost
Summary: You shouldn't criticize a gift, even if you don't like it very much.





	1. How It Started

**Author's Note:**

> YAY, OTP! McReyes doesn't get enough love in my opinion, so here we go! Jesse is 18, close to 19, so it's not underaged. Also, this is my first work in a REALLY long time, so feel free to comment and help me improve this work! Thanks!

One shot.

He had one shot, and he'd managed to waste it.

If asked, Jesse McCree of the Deadlock gang did _not_ miss. He had perfected the art of killing into a crude Machiavellian skill, used as a means to an end. It was justified and righteous. However, Deadlock was made of men, and Jesse McCree was no god.

From the moment he'd heard the rapid fire of guns and the stomping of heavy boots above his head (the telltale signs of a raid, he'd learned), he was very aware of his own mortality. It was common for the neighboring gangs to fight over turf, and he'd been part of many of them. Hell, Jesse helped secure Deadlock Gorge and long stretches of his desert home in those kinds of fights. But this... this seemed different. The moment he heard gunfire, he arched upward from his makeshift bed, Peacekeeper held close like a child's comfort item. It took a few moments for him to remember where he was, why he was there, and just what the hell he should do.

Jesse, along with a large group of 'higher ups' in the gang, had been tasked to transfer a large weapons cache from their main headquarters to Albuquerque, then to El Paso. A buyer (Tusk? Terror? Talon? Yeah, probably Talon. Whatever they called themselves, it started with a 'T' and it made Jesse laugh) requested a large and diverse amount of weapons for a rather handsome price, and who was Deadlock to refuse such a generous offer? The only reason Jesse was there was to guard the higher ranking members and shoot down anyone in their way.

Thinking back on it, despite the silly name, the envoy from Talon appeared too well-dressed and too loose with his money for this to be considered a 'safe' mission. They should've declined, because of-fucking-course a group like that with an order this expensive would attract vultures, and considering it took a good while to move the weapons into the storehouse for the night, it wouldn't be surprising if _someone_  had seen them. But since Jesse had been stashed into the bottom of the house to "guard the merchandise" (it was more likely so that the others above wouldn't have to share their beds), he supposed he was relatively safe, if only just a tad bit uncomfortable. And besides, Jesse reasoned, being in Deadlock normally kept others from poking their noses into places they didn't rightly belong. This wouldn't be any different, right?

Wrong.

From his bed beneath the old, rickety flooring of the storehouse, Jesse was obscured as long as he was quiet and as long as the people above him didn't look too hard between the floorboards. Being the runt of the litter had its perks tonight, it seemed. With the amount of gunshots and the number of bodies hitting the floor, he highly doubted any of the other gang members would be living by sunrise. After a considerable amount of time, with the exception of boots shuffling around the house, the world was silent. Jesse felt like throwing up. He was too afraid to move, even when the blood of what he could only assume to be a gang member began to drip through the floorboards and into his hair, onto his face, soaking into his clothing.

"All hostiles terminated. But are you sure this is the right place, commander?"

Okay, yeah, this definitely was not another gang, and that meant a shit ton of trouble. If Jesse focused hard enough, he could hear the sharp electrical hum of communicators, and if Deadlock didn't have them (they had old fashioned walkie talkies if they really needed it), none of the local gangs would either. To add to it, the attackers moved like a well-oiled machine, too strategic and efficient for thugs. This was something else.

"Yes, sir." The voice, male in nature, paused. "I looked on the ground level and upstairs, but intel didn't say if it had a lower level."

Jesse, for the first time in a long time, felt a fear so deep that it drowned out his typical adrenaline high. As the boots shuffled around looking for an entrance, Peacekeeper aimed straight and true. Six bullets, and Jesse never missed.

"There seems to be a cellar, sir."

The handle shook, the door lifted. Down dropped a body. Even in the darkness, there was no use hiding, and when confronted with fear, the youngest gang member met it with aggression. Their eyes met, both of them wide and startled, and before the other could choke out something akin to "Wait, don't-", a bullet was soundly lodged into his brain. The agent's body slumped unceremoniously to the ground. Once again, all was quiet but the communicator. Jesse didn't bother stealing it, but ran forward, took it from the body, and smashed it with his boot until nothing good remained. Just as quickly, he was out of the cellar and into the fight.

Wading through a house of dead comrades was a whole lot better than running straight into a team of well-armed agents, if you asked Jesse McCree, but being able to surprise and shoot said agents was even better. He supposed that if he saw a half-starved man with blood on his face running out of an 'abandoned' house, then he would be a little shocked, too. Two men went down, two more remaining, and Jesse could feel the burning itch behind his right eye that always seemed to accompany his fear. If he got worked up enough and focused, he felt like time slowed down, if only for a few seconds. It's what made him Deadlock's top pick with high stakes missions. But Jesse was not nearly full of enough adrenaline to fuel his attack, and he was left to recklessly shoot and hope for the best.

But now was not the time for either of those things. Before he could get shot full of holes, the boy ducked back inside the house, body against the wall. Two men shouldn't be so hard, right? He could vaguely hear one of the other men presumably talking into his communicator, the other one slowly edging his was towards the house, and if Jesse wasn't screwed enough before, he knew he would be if he didn't hightail his ass right out of the situation.

Without so much as a warning, a spray of bullets punctured the boards around McCree like a hailstorm, and a blistering pain in his legs told him that, yes, he'd been hit by a few of them. The pressure behind his eye skyrocketed. Well, it was now or never apparently; he felt fire blossom and spread through his skull, and time seemed to almost stop. As soon as Jesse moved to the open doorway, his gun was trained on the agents, and not a moment later they fell to the dirt. Dark crimson began to pool around their heads and stain the desert sand.

Everyone was dead, save one boy.

It took a few seconds for time to return to normal, but the fiery pain was like a jackhammer in the McCree's skull. Jesse felt his knees give out. As he hit the ground, he felt his a familiar trickle of blood leak from his nose (a consequence of his little party trick, along with a killer migraine) and his legs start to ache something awful. The rapid beating of his heart ricocheted and resonated from every bullet’s entry point. Still, Jesse knew he had to go, wounds and weapon cache be damned.

Hauling himself back up took tremendous effort, but that pain was nothing in comparison to putting weight on his legs. Jesse McCree never cried, but he was pretty damn close. He managed to make it a whopping fifteen feet before falling face first into the dry desert earth. He'd been shot multiple times before, had the scars to prove it, but never in both fucking legs and never with more than one bullet. Jesse was careful, he was resourceful, and that's why he survived as many situations as he did. If anybody  wanted to run with a gang, they’d better have a damn good head on their shoulders. Anyone who didn't was cannon fodder.


	2. How It Played Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five men. Gabriel Reyes was down five specially trained, hard to replace military men, and he was left asking how, because it surely couldn't have been this small rat of a kid that was out cold, wrapped in some weird-ass blanket, and cuddled up to a damn shrub like it would hide him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 up and ready! Gosh, I'm tired (BUT THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU STAY UP TO WRITE FANFICTION)

Five men. Gabriel Reyes was down five specially trained, hard to replace military men, and he was left asking how, because it surely couldn't have been this small rat of a kid that was out cold, wrapped in some weird-ass blanket, cuddled up to a damn shrub like it would hide him. The punk couldn't have been older than twenty, sixteen at the very least, and here he was, shooting up fucking covert ops agents like they were fish in a barrel.

"Lumberg, Keplan, Helens, Hishiro, and Taylor are all down." A newer agent had been tasked to do a body count for both the members of the Deadlock gang and for Blackwatch, and he looked pale and sickly. Reyes might've found it a tad bit humorous if not for the situation at hand.

"Get them rounded up," Reyes ordered, his voice unwavering. He lightly kicked the scrawny boy at his feet, watching for signs of life. "And make sure you get the gang members, too. Take agent North with you and report back when you're finished."

The newer agent rushed off (Gabriel could only assume that the kid would vomit later with how green he looked, but hey, it builds character), and Reyes let his attention focus wholly on the prone figure on the ground.

The kid was still breathing, but his nose was pouring like he'd been punched and his legs were bleeding in a kaleidoscope of scattershot wounds. His hair was sticky, ratty, and matted down, and his hollow cheeks were caked in crimson. The poor runt was practically starved half to death, and his body looked too sinewy and scrawny from too much work and not enough nutrients. Reyes could almost feel bad for him, if he hadn't had killed his men.

Another swift kick to the side, and the boy let out a sharp hiss. A dirty arm reached out and swiped at his legs in a pitiful display of anger, and after a few more seconds, the kid was awake. In his sleep, he looked like nothing more than a child having a bad dream. Awake, however, the boy transformed into something feral, eyes flashing with aggression and fear. A deadly combination. In an instant, a very old but equally deadly revolver was aimed upwards. Reyes lashed out with his foot, and although not able to prevent the round from going off, he prevented it from killing him like it had his agents. He could feel a light burn across his cheek and the feel of blood trickling down his jaw, and his normal scowl deepened into something threatening.

Reyes pressed his heavy boot against the boy's throat, unfazed by the blunt, dirt-caked nails that attempted to rake his flesh. "You've got to be kidding me."

This kid was apparently full of surprises, because he attempted to fire again (which was met with harsh pressure against his wind pipe). He met Reyes's threat with a snarl, lips curled back enough to show bloody teeth. Reyes was almost impressed with fire behind the kid's eyes. He was uncut, unclean, and unafraid of the punishment that could be dealt to him, and Gabriel ate it up like candy. He could use some compensation from this shitty sting operation, and while it would be a bitch to convince the lovely Strike Commander Morrison to take in a stray, he could deal with the paperwork and the training himself.

\-----

"No."

Gabriel was already prepared for that answer, but it didn't make him roll his eyes any less.

Morrison practically slammed the door of the interrogation room with enough force to probably damage the hinges. He was sporting a new, swollen, quickly bruising eye, which Gabriel could only assume was a gift from the punk handcuffed to a chair in the other room.

"Yes," Reyes shot back, he placed his coffee down to take the Manila folder from Jack's hand; the thing was basically useless, all of the data entries being closer to estimations than facts.

"No, Reyes."

For a moment, the two sized each other up like fighting dogs. A challenge, a battle of wills. Neither wanted to back down or really cooperate, but then again, when did they ever?

"Okay, look," Reyes began, "If I get his information, let me decide what to do with him."

Jack held up Gus hand as a sign of silence, sitting down and stealing the other's coffee. He took a large gulp before he could be scolded.

"But if you don't?" he asked.

"But if I don't," Gabriel repeated, snatching back his cup with his free hand, "Then you can toss his scrawny ass into supermax until he rots. Fair?"

Jack nodded, and that was all Gabriel needed. Coffee and folder in hand, he stood from his chair and made his way into the interrogation room.

\----

The kid was slinging his head like a rearing horse when Gabe entered. The struggle was futile, of course, and it only earned him bleeding wrists and more fatigue. He'd been forcefully patted down, and he was only left with his filthy shirt and pants. Everything else was gone, even his shoes, so they could be cleaned of blood, lest all of Overwatch face Doctor Ziegler's wrath as she went off about blood-borne illnesses. If there were dangerous items, they would be stored away. Gabriel wished they would've hosed the boy down, too.

If Reyes was a lesser man, he might've been unsettled by the way the boy's hostile eyes bored into his own, how his lips were pulled into a taunting, threatening grin. He looked crazed, and maybe he was, but Reyes was not a lesser man, and he was not unsettled in the least.

"You here to finish the job then?" the kid sneered, watching as Gabriel looked at the folder once and tossed it into the floor. "Came to do what the boy scout wouldn't?"

He might've been cocky, but Reyes could see through his act. He could see the thinly veiled fear lurking behind those dark eyes. Those same eyes watched him closely and regarded him with caution as the commander sat in the chair across from him, calmly sitting his coffee down like he was there for a friendly chat.

Seeing that the act didn't have the desired effect, the kid dropped his grin and replaced it with a deep-set scowl. He was a cornered animal, and it was no wonder that he attacked Morrison. Reyes could see a small bruise forming on his forehead, presumably where he headbutted Jack, and for a moment, Reyes could see the kid for what he truly was: a starving, wounded boy scared out of his mind, in pain and in a world full of strangers.

"Look, kid," Gabriel began, pulling the handcuff keys from his pocket. The boy flicked his eyes over to the key, but only for a second. He was afraid to let Reyes out of his sight. "I'll unlock you, but the second you try any kind of shit, I'll put so many bullets in your head that your brain will leak out. Understand?"

A nod. The kid's gaze practically burned holes into Reyes as he slowly, carefully approached the boy, taking his time unlocking the handcuffs. As soon as he was freed, the punk yanked his arms to his chest like he'd touched a burning pan, and Reyes sat back down just as slowly and just as carefully as he had been before. The skin looked torn and painfully raw, and the kid’s hands kept opening and closing like he'd lost feeling in them. He probably had, but there was something more to that motion. Reyes had seen it so many times before. It was something he saw with Ana's daughter, Fareeha, almost every day; the kid was trying to grab a comfort item that wasn't there anymore. If he were to guess, it would be that weird red blanket. Without it, the boy was as tense as a bowstring.

New objective: make the kid more comfortable.

Gabe politely adverted his eyes. It was a tactic he often used with frightened children, used to make them feel less intimidated, less overwhelmed (it was easy to feel scared when a colossal man was staring you down). It seemed to work pretty well; over the span of about ten minutes, he could see the tension leave the kid's body out of his peripheral vision. Still without looking, Reyes nudged his coffee towards the scrawny boy. Another few minutes (Reyes could only assume the kid was going over pros and cons, questioning the man's motives) and dirty hands shot out to take the cup, greedily drinking like it might be taken from him. The commander heard the kid choke a few times with how fast the cup was drained.

"How do you know I didn't poison that?" Gabriel's voice was quiet and vaguely teasing, something he knew the boy would pick up on, wouldn't perceive as a threat. This kid wasn't stupid, nor was he dense.

Once all of the contents were gone and the cup was carefully nudged in the direction of Reyes, the kid leveled his eyes and cocked an eyebrow. He almost looked amused. A good reaction.

"We both know that'd be a waste of gas," he quipped. Reyes snorted, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he finally made eye contact again. The action was copied, which he took as a good sign; if his actions were reciprocated, the kid wasn't shut off completely. He was responsive.

The little bit of trust building had apparently been the magic solution, one that only Reyes would consider using. Hell, the kid didn't even look all that tense anymore. Morrison most likely came in expecting to be listened to, to be respected. Gabriel knew better; respect was a two-way street.

"Okay, kid. I want you to answer a few questions for me." Reyes paused, gauging the other's reaction while taking the cup back carefully. "Beginning with your name."

"What's in it for me?"

And of course he would ask the question. Gabriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead exhaling sharply through his nose.

"I'll answer any questions you have, _and_  I'll throw in a hot meal and a good shower. Deal?" Carefully, Gabriel held out his hand. Automatically, the kid took it.

"The name’s Jesse McCree," he said quickly, giving Gabriel's hand a good shake before pulling back. Almost tentatively, he asked, "Who are you, then?"

Reyes grinned, but he knew not to push his luck. This kid, McCree, was still closed off, still wary. Watching, patient. A smart move.

"My name is Gabriel Reyes."

Unlike most of the times he introduced himself, no recognition came from Jesse. Nearly every kid knew about both Morrison and himself, but thinking back on the situation, McCree didn't comment on Jack (a dead giveaway on him being with Overwatch) or on Reyes. "Now, how old are you?"

"I'll be nineteen in four months."

Back and forth, for almost an hour, Gabriel managed to pull information from Jesse without the kid shutting down on him. McCree was, of course, cheeky and occasionally disrespectful, but he knew better than to bite down too hard on the hand that had promised to feed him. True to his word, Gabriel asked Athena to send someone with whatever had been served earlier (the kid marveled at Athena. Reyes learned that he didn't really know much about the Omnic Crisis, and outside of him screwing around with Deadlock's bombs and traps, his knowledge of advanced tech was limited).

As soon as the meal arrived, it was scarfed down like it was the food of the gods, like it would disappear or be forcefully taken away. Gabriel also noticed the way McCree would shoot an aggressive look towards him, almost instinctively, whenever he moved even an inch. Food-related aggression. Reyes could work on that in McCree's training if he joined. Gabriel had certainly made up his mind; he wanted Jesse as a soldier. This kid was raw potential, unpolished but even still, he was shining. Reyes had never seen anyone shoot with such accuracy without the proper training, and given the resources, he could become even greater.

"You aren't stupid, kid," he began, only talking once McCree had been still for a while, "And we both know it. We also both know that if Morrison runs some checks on you, he's not going to like what he sees. He'll hit you with everything in the books and your ass is going to rot in the darkest prison that he can find."

Once again, Jesse's eyes bored into him. Those eyes were sharp, they were clever. Reyes could see him cutting apart everything he had said, judging and processing and planning his moves like a game of chess. Oh, how Gabriel wanted the kid even more.

"So let's prevent that. Let's you and I make a deal," Gabriel continued, extending his had like he had earlier. "You're young, you're smart. You know where you'll end up if one of us leaves this room right now. However." A pause, allowing the knowledge to be absorbed. "I would prefer you used your talents instead of rotting away, and I think you would, too. So work with Blackwatch. Work with _me_. No red tape like Overwatch. If you choose to do that, I'll keep you out of jail regardless of what Morrison or anyone else has to say. I have the ability to handpick my agents, and I want to pick you."

A sharp laugh bubbled from McCree's lips, and he gripped Reyes' hand tightly, like he might retract it. "You've got yourself a deal."

\----

When McCree came trailing behind Reyes like a lost pup with a new owner, Morrison nearly screamed. Of course, Reyes told Jack he would send him the information he received, and then he and Jesse were on their merry way. The kid stayed with him like white on rice, almost skittish of the other people passing them in the halls. Gabriel's presence alone was enough to make them turn their heads away; for once, he was thankful for that.

He took the kid to get bathed, and then came the fun part of visiting Doctor Ziegler. That took a long while, and McCree was thoroughly grouchy by the time they were done. From the time they had reached the Watchpoint to the the time they were done with the Doc, it had been a long while since either of them had slept. Reyes could exist just fine, but Jesse was beginning to finally grow sluggish. This kid needed some damn sleep and another proper meal, but for now, Reyes quietly led the kid to his office and let him crash face first on the couch, gangling limbs partially hanging off.

Gabriel would be stupid to just throw the kid in the barracks with the other Blackwatch agents. There was now the potential for retribution due to Jesse being the one to kill their friends, their fellow agents. Like the kid said, it would've been a waste of gas if he got killed this far in. He supposed that maybe Jesse could use Ana's empty quarters with her permission (she was currently residing in the Swiss headquarters, and would then be transferred to Gibraltar. That was more than enough time to get the kid acclimated), and it would allow Gabriel to keep an eye on him, considering the room was one of the three rooms on this hallway. With a decision made, and with his newest agent sleeping soundly behind him, Reyes quietly began his stack of paperwork, feeling more content than he had felt in ages.


	3. How It Almost Ended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree, in all his angry glory, was right about one thing; getting his ass beat did not make him any less likely to die.

"Come on, kid. Are you even trying?"

That was the third time Jesse had been quite literally smashed by Reinhardt's hammer (this one was for "practice", so it was "softer" according to Commander Reyes), and he was getting very, _very_ tired of taking Gabe's shit. He'd been there for, what? Three months? All he'd done for three straight months was eat, train, and visit the good ol' Doc, Angela Ziegler, for all of the shots he'd missed and to check out his wounds. With the way Reinhardt was bearing down on him, he'd have to visit her two days in a row. What a joy. Throw in a lack of sleep, and McCree was not a happy man.

"You know," Jesse snapped, pawing at the sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, "It would be a hell of a lot easier without the peanut gallery participating, boss."

Gabriel took a deep breath. It's not worth the paperwork, he told himself, it's not worth the paperwork. Besides, if he killed McCree, Fareeha, Ana, and his strike team (along with the vast majority of Blackwatch) would have his hide. As insufferable as he could be with his snark and sass, everyone had grown attached to the little shit. Minus Jack. The dear Strike Commander continuously struggled with Jesse's lack of military-taught respect for authority. Mocking salutes and the lack of "sir" made Morrison's face run bloody red, and Gabe was sure that if Jack wasn't in the public eye all the time, Jesse would be a dead man before the age of twenty. Hell, with the missions Jack had given the kid, Gabriel was surprised that he even lasted the three months he'd been there. Jack was determined to either kill this kid, make him run, or break his spirit. Reyes was equally determined not to let that happen.

"Well, tough shit. The peanut gallery saved your ass, so the peanut gallery can do whatever the hell he wants."

From his sparring position, Reinhardt laughed loudly. It was not uncommon to see the Blackwatch Commander and his new student quarrel. Although none were brave enough to admit it, many thought it was endearing. Ana was happy that McCree was as stubborn as he was, and much to Gabriel's dismay, she normally encouraged his behavior.

"You finally have someone who isn't shaking when you stare them down!" she would often say. "He challenges you, and that _is_ good, Gabriel. You need members with more backbone."

Loathe as he was to admit it, she wasn't wrong. He was intimidating, he knew that very well, but McCree was bold. If Gabriel stepped on his toes, he'd step right back. If the others turned their heads, he faced forward and grinned. Cheeky bastard. But that was what made the kid Gabriel's budding protégé. McCree was a clean slate, and that allowed Reyes to mold him into whatever he deemed necessary.

Everyone could tell that the Commander had started grooming Jesse around the start of the second month. The first month had been Reyes bonding with the kid and helping him along. He had learned very quickly that McCree would almost jump through hoops for praise, even if he adamantly denied it, and although he was still being desensitized to touch (the kid had nearly bit him when he first gave him friendly, neutral touches on the shoulder), he enjoyed the occasional rustle of his hair. It made positive reinforcement so much easier, and honestly, seeing the kid grow less skittish, less aggressive, was something that made him proud.

But here the kid was, flying across the mat like a golf ball with a snarl, not unlike the one when he and Reyes first met.

"Alright, agent Wilhelm, I believe he's had enough flying lessons."

Watching the kid get slammed a fourth time was just plain painful, and the wheeze that escaped his body was not unlike a dying dog getting hit by a car. But hey, as Reyes always said, it builds character, and there's nothing a good run under a biotic field wouldn't fix.

Reinhardt slung his "soft" hammer over his shoulder, wished both Gabriel and Jesse a good day (along with the promise of having drinks sometime, which sounded especially lovely to Jesse), and left to most likely hunt Tornjörn. He was a good guy, that Reinhardt, but Jesse liked him a lot better when he wasn't fighting him. His body felt like he'd fallen off a horse and got trampled underneath its feet multiple times, and even with Reyes looming over him, he simply laid on his back.

"Get your ass up, cachorro."

McCree cracked open his eyes and leveled a glare at Gabriel. Oh, how he hated that word. Thoughts of asking Reinhardt to smash his Commander with the "soft" hammer filled Jesse's mind, and he nearly had the gall to stop Reinhardt and ask. Instead, he pulled himself up from the ground and made a rather valiant attempt to walk it off.

"I ain't no dog, boss."

Reyes simply rolled his eyes.

"Back to the original question," Gabriel said, herding McCree towards the exit. The kid looked like he needed a bit of an escort to the infirmary; it'd be an ironic kind of shame to have him die on the way to the doctor. "Were you even trying out there? Because from where I'm standing, it looked like you put in the least amount of fucking effort that you possibly could."

Every single word coming out of Gabriel's mouth rubbed Jesse the wrong way, like sandpaper against his skin. He was battered, beaten, and heavily bruised, and Reyes gave nothing but criticism the entire match. No tips, no pointers, nothing but demoralizing quips about how damn horrible he was at dodging a fucking bear of a man with a huge-ass hammer. Soft, they said. "Soft" his ass. Today was not the day, and he'd had enough.

"You can just fuck right off, Reyes!" Jesse snapped, turning as fast as he could to face the man without hurting himself more. "You ain't done shit to help me and Jack's trying to kill me. Getting my ass beat in by Reinhardt ain't gonna make me less likely to die, it'll just make me die tired."

\----

McCree, in all his angry glory, was right about one thing; getting his ass beat didn't make him any less likely to die. Jack had taken the kid with him on a personal mission to Arkansas while Gabriel was at a stakeout down in Los Cabos, and that alone was beyond infuriating. The fact that the corn-fed motherfucker had both ignored Jesse's astute warnings and then got McCree shot full of holes was a crime worthy of the full wrath of Blackwatch. As soon as Gabriel was informed, he left the job to a member of his Strike team and returned to Grand Mesa.

Doctor Ziegler was missing when he arrived at the infirmary. No one was at the nurses station to help him, either, (the only person Reyes could see was a patient off to the side, breathing so loudly that he was sure that it hurt) so either Jack had screwed up majorly and nearly killed all of his agents, or the already short-staffed medical wing was in surgery. It seemed like both at this point.

Reyes was no fool, he feared the righteous anger of Angela, and rightly so, but Jesse was more important. Sliding behind the front desk, he began to scroll through the infirmary's computer system, looking for the fate of his protégé. His mouth began to go dry when nothing came up.

"If you are looking for the weird westerner that was shot up, he is in surgery."

Gabriel was not a man to scare easy, but he had to admit, he flinched at the young voice addressing him. It was the Shimada boy, Genji. Even dressed in his playboy clothes, gaudy in Japan's latest fashion, he was stealthy and noiseless when he chose to be. The boy was Blackwatch's current information source about the Shimada crime empire, coming to America on his father's money while living it up at nightclub parties. His visits were always random, unannounced, but each time he gave away valuable information.

"What are you doing in the medical wing?" Reyes asked, moving from behind the desk to stand in front of the kid. "You aren't supposed to be wandering around, especially not supervised."

Genji shrugged, giving a casual smile that suggested no remorse at having been caught.

"Doctor Ziegler let me in."

The young Japanese playboy quickly became unimportant as Angela came bustling through double doors, pushing a very pale and heavily sedated McCree into the main area. Gabriel could already see the bloody bandages covering the visibly portions of Jesse's body from where he was standing. When she noticed him, Angela didn't seem very surprised, instead greeting him quietly as he walked her way. Her medical gloves were gone, but blood still covered her uniform and her eyelids drooped slightly with exhaustion.

"The Strike Commander is lucky. All of McCree's vital organs have been spared, but had McCree been shot and killed, I believe your agents would have caused an uprising."

Her voice was stern but soft as she talked, giving Jesse a once-over and checking the small drip hanging above his head before returning her attention to Gabriel.

"He should be out for a while, but if he wakes up, make sure he isn't in too pain and that he doesn't move too much. The sutures will tear, and the last thing he needs is more blood loss."

With that, Angela went back through the double doors, leaving McCree in Gabriel's care. The other rooms must've been full if the good doctor was putting a patient fresh out of surgery into the main area. So Jack really _had_ fucked up, and it cost him his agent for sure; Jesse was pitiful. His skin was abnormally pale, the soft sheen of sweat being visible under the fluorescent lighting. His breathing was labored, and he was covered from head to toe in cuts, bruises, and bandages. Gabriel had a sudden surge of guilt, and the longer he looked at the kid, the more the feeling grew.

Whenever he and Jesse had a spat, they always made up. It just took a while for both of them to cool their tempers and swallow their pride. This time, however, Gabriel left for Los Cabos without saying a word to the kid (he hadn't been particularly used to being separate from his Commander for more than a week), and that left Jesse in a state of turmoil and at the mercy of Jack.

Looking around for Genji, and satisfied that the informant had gotten bored and left, Reyes carefully, gently, moved the hair sticking to McCree's damp forehead, tucking it to the side. When Morrison crossed his path, the blond son of a bitch would get his ass chewed up in a flurry of wrath and retribution. Gabriel was not one to forget offenses, and neither was the rest of Blackwatch. But for now, he pulled up a chair and took the kid's limp hand, never once letting go.


End file.
